


Belief

by montparnase



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, horatio is angry and feels emotions, mostly introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 06:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montparnase/pseuds/montparnase
Summary: He swallows, and decides against giving the prince a jolt back to reality, by means of telling him how everything has gone to shit, how angry Horatio is, how many he has hurt-Horatio steadies his breathing instead, listening to Hamlet’s heart.





	Belief

**Author's Note:**

> Based somewhat on this tumblr post [http://belinsky.tumblr.com/post/30912190186/for-the-why-do-you-ship-them-meme]  
> warning for brief mentions of suicide and abuse

In his time at the Castle, Horatio has learned one thing: forgiveness is not always noble, nor does it bring peace of mind, nor is it always honorable. When he watches the carnage unfold, and familial ties go undone, he watches. He remembers. And faults his prince for it. He digs his nails deeper into his shoulders, he sneaks sidelong glances instead of looking away. Let them all know he knows, let them see their fault and flaw. He suspects Hamlet is doing the same, though they don't talk about it. Horatio pretends to believe, wants to believe Hamlet’s behavior is an act; but he knows it's not. Like Horatio, Hamlet is letting them see. What they have done. And what he has done to himself. 

And Ophelia, too. She lets them- no, makes them to confront what has been done to her. Horatio has an inkling, can piece a vague picture together of what she went through, what she was forced to go through. Of all the men in Elsinore, Hamlet is not the most guilty. 

He can fault the prince for everything else. Not his uncle, but his mother, and his friends, and the smell of burning cloth coming from the yard and the missing tapestry, and bringing him into this. 

Its self pitying and selfish, especially now, but Horatio cannot but blame Hamlet for this inane revenge plot. He understands, he empathizes, and yet he cannot help but imagine that they could be in their shared room in Wittenberg, instead, drinking something strong and talking and falling asleep before their hands could wander. Or not falling asleep. Either way suited Horatio perfectly well. 

But the blame and anger does not last when he finds himself in front of Hamlet’s door, locked from the outside and bare and stark on the inside. He knocks first, simply to allow Hamlet a choice. Something thunks against the door, and Horatio takes it as permission to enter. 

After Polonius, and a failed attempt to do the same to himself, the king and queen had decided to take things into their own hands. They did not send him away, which Horatio saw a mistake (he yearned for fresh air outside of the too small halls of Elsinore), and instead converted a spare room into this. 

It was for his own best, they said, when they locked him away and cleaned their hands of the matter. Psychiatrists visited three times a week. No one else, save Horatio, did. 

Hamlet was sitting on the bed with the clean blue sheets, in clean white clothes. His feet were bare, and the furniture (desk, bed, chair, bureau, bookcase, all metal) was bolted down to the floor. No shoelaces.  
And as usual, Hamlet was a flurry of energy. Horatio had only been here hours ago, but he found himself being embraced by the prince as if it had been years. It made sense, when by all accounts everyone else in the castle seemed to have forgotten him. 

“I think I’m going crazy, Horatio- that, or everyone else is. This place, it's-” He stops himself, but Horatio knows what he means.

“It’s for your best,” Horatio replies, rolling his eyes, sardonically mimicking the queen. 

“God, if I have to hear that one more time,” Hamlet rolled his eyes, “I’m really not as bad as they think I am.”

“Hamlet you-”

The prince looked away, “I know what I did.”

“And you blame them for this, then?”

“Do you not, Horatio? I’m seeing things, the only people I see are you and people telling me to reflect on my feelings, and-” 

“I’m sorry.”

Hamlet didn’t reply, simply sat back down on his bed. Then, he turned and lay down. 

Horatio stood, pity and anger and desperation welling in his stomach because this couldn’t be solved, he wasn’t prepared for this, and the walls of the castle inched closer everyday. 

And Hamlet, because he needed something, someone, and Horatio couldn’t do that, he couldn’t take this burden on himself and let Hamlet commit atrocities while he forgave and turned a blind eye. 

And yet.

He lays down next to his prince on the narrow bed. 

“I keep thinking back to Wittenberg. Gets me through the day.” He says, lacking the words to convey his sorrow, his helplessness, his rage. “I keep thinking about the library, and how much we drank and how much more beautiful it all was.”  
Great, so he was spouting verse now. But the diffuse light through the frosted windows of this room so starkly contrasted with the stained glass windows casting colors onto oaken floors that Horatio could not help but venture into the metaphysical. 

“I don’t think about anything at all.” Hamlet responds, shifting closer to Horatio. Horatio turns, and without thinking throws his arm over Hamlet’s waist and pulls him against him. It’s an instinct by now. Hold Hamlet close, keep him away from sharp objects, leave him alone as little as possible. 

“I hate this place.” The prince mumbles. 

“I know. Me too.” Horatio says into his shoulder. 

They lie in silence for a few minutes, and Horatio can faintly feel Hamlet’s heart beating through his thin frame. He swallows, and decides against giving the prince a jolt back to reality, by means of telling him how everything has gone to shit, how angry Horatio is, how many he has hurt-

Horatio steadies his breathing instead, listening to Hamlet’s heart. 

Later, in his own bed, when he fills time by jumping to conclusions and throwing around accusations, Horatio would mentally berate himself for his weak will. He is angry, he is so angry, and he has seen too much, and yet he would still hold his tongue and wrap his arms around Hamlet.  
And yet, a small voice would point out, he consciously decided against expressing his anger. There could be two reasons for that- he is not ready to forgive, or, that he is not ready for Hamlet’s self loathing at that. Because he is not in the right state of mind, he is not aware, he is grasping at straws in the dark. As soon as that thought occurs to him, Horatio wonders if he's still describing his prince. 

Horatio forces himself to empty his mind, and focus on keeping thoughts away. It was some sort of meditative technique, he was sure he had read about it once. It works for the most part, but when one is on the brink of sleep, thoughts focus dissolves for the most part.  
And it is at that point Horatio realizes, he has gotten much more than he bargained for here at Elsinore. Something unconditional. Something that, even though he may feel rage and anxiety and desperation, will not change. Something that he will put his own feelings aside for, for the moment, to protect. 

Something that so starkly contrasted with everything else in this god-forsaken castle. And something he wouldn’t let any of them take from him.


End file.
